The Valley of the Dying Son
by Mage of the Heart
Summary: 6620 – Police Constable Gene Hunt... that was him, right there. It wasn't the goofy ears, or the lanky limbs or the swept back hair; it was 6620. Rated T for now, though subject to change
1. Coronation Day

**The Valley of the Dying Son**

**I don't own Ashes to Ashes/Life on Mars or any of the characters etc. **

**Basically, I gave up on the idea of a post s3 GALex fic, for now, as I feel totally disappointed in how the series ended, and can't bring myself to write it as of yet; however, I'm not giving up, and am simply filling in the gaps until I feel more positive, by entertaining myself with this fic, centred around Gene's past, and how he came to be whatever it is he is and... Well, that's really all I can say for now... **

**I hope you'll like it. It's different to anything I've written before, so we'll see how it goes :)**

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He smiled briefly, catching his reflection in the mirror of the hall as he made for the front door; he had to concede to a slight degree of arrogance – he did look good in uniform. It suited him. It felt good, too, although he doubted he'd feel the same way when mid-summer came around and he was forced onto the beat in scorching sun and full Bobby regalia... but it'd be worth it, he told himself. Worth it once he found his feet and started working his way up the ladder... As soon as he got used to the way things worked and how to do things, it would all pay off.

He adjusted the black tie, self-consciously rubbing his neck and dusting invisible specks of dirt from his jacket; his fingers brushed the cool metal of his epaulette number, and he stopped, turning slightly to the side and smirking in satisfaction. The silver numbers glinted in the dim light of the farmhouse, and he allowed the familiar, warm glow of pride to swell in his chest as he looked at them; 6620 – Police Constable Gene Hunt... that was him, right there. It wasn't the goofy ears, or the lanky limbs or the swept back hair; it was 6620. He was a copper at last; all of his waiting, his frustrations, his anger at feeling so useless and defenceless, had finally paid off; he could make a difference, change things, do justice, and nail any bastard scum that got in his way... The thought thrilled him.

With a final glance at his reflection, he stepped through into the living area, smiling as he saw his mother tottering on a wooden chair, pinning up a set of coronation flags that she'd found in the corner shop for two shillings and claimed before Gertrude Bossley could get her hands on them. With his hat tucked under his arm, Gene stepped forwards, touching her gently on the shoulder and waiting for her to turn before he began speaking.

"See yer later, Mam," he smiled, nodding at the flags with a smile. "Careful they don't fall onto the bookshelf again; you'll be flailing around like a fish out of water, an' I'll be too busy catching scum to help you." She slapped him lightly on the shoulder, smiling despite herself as she shook her head.

"Don't you be telling me what to do, Genie," Madeline Hunt said firmly, pointed her finger accusingly. "You might be a policeman now, but you're never too old to go over my knee!" Her youngest son felt his lips twitch into a smirk as he nodded.

"Yes, Mam," he agreed, glancing at the clock on the wall in anticipation; he felt a slight tug of disappointment as he saw there were still five minutes to wait. With a sigh, he turned back, biting back a noise of annoyance as his mother straightened his hair; he could only assume that she didn't see the look of repulsion on his face, since she gave no recognition of his annoyance and continued until every hair on his head was flat. When he looked up, he caught her bright blue eyes shimmering, and he swallowed; he might have mistaken them for tears of joy a month ago, but not now.

"Still no news?" he asked, swallowing slightly as she jerked back to earth with a sudden shake of the head.

"Sorry dear?" She queried, swiping at her leaking eyes with the back of her hand and stepping down from the chair gingerly. "What were you saying? I was in a world of my own."

Gene sighed, shaking his head and allowing her to step forward, placing both arms around him in a motherly gesture, the top of her head barely level with his chest as he put one arm around her shoulder. Ever since Stuart had disappeared, she'd been acting like this; breaking off in conversation, drifting off to her own little world and allowing tears to brim in her eyes when she allowed herself to dip too far into grief... When the bastard showed up again, Gene had a good mind to punch the useless git into an early grave and shove whatever drugs he'd been doing this time right up his arse.

"He'll be back," Gene murmured, tone edged with a hint of steel that evidently showed the vicious anger in his stomach, causing his mother to draw away and look at him assessingly for a moment; she took several seconds, meeting his steely blue gaze with her own tearful one before nodding slightly and choosing to ignore the chilling note in his voice.

"Of course he will," she smiled, nodding with false conviction. "He always comes back..."

Gene nodded abruptly, swallowing back anger and frustration, even as Madeline went on, apparently reading his mind. "And don't you be getting ideas into your head about when he gets back; I saw the pair of you wrestling like bulls the last time, and it'll do you no good fighting. He'll do as he needs to, and sooner or later, he'll stop..."

"Or die," Gene growled bitterly, reaching into the pocket of his new jacket and drawing out a cigarette and box of matches, lighting up swiftly and taking a long drag. "One or the other," he muttered, "sooner or later."

"Don't you be saying things like that, Gene," she scolded, slapping him again; it was more forceful this time, and he nodded his understanding, gritting his jaw as he did so.

"Sorry," he muttered, taking another drag. "But if he saw yer right now, he'd drop them needles faster than a hot baked turd in a -!"

"That's enough of your foul mouth," she reprimanded, shaking her head, her eyes narrowing as she glowered at him; he had the good grace to fall quiet, although he didn't doubt that she read the torrent of anger that raced through his brain and caused his fingers to twitch with anger and anticipation, suddenly finding himself itching to break up a brawl, just for the opportunity to bang some heads together.

"I'll get your photo back tomorrow," Madeline said, softly changing the topic as she nodded towards the film canister on the sideboard; Gene felt himself smile, and was about to reply when his attention was directed surely and swiftly elsewhere.

There was the distinct crunch of gravel outside, the sound of an engine, the slight sputter as it died out, and then Gene grinned, feeling adrenaline pulse through his veins as he pressed an apologetic kiss to his mother's cheek and headed for the door, holding the helmet firmly under his arm and jogging swiftly away, even as Madeline called after him.

"You be careful, Gene! And don't you start bad-mouthing any of your superior off-!" He cut off her voice as he closed the farmhouse door behind him, practically sprinting down the path to stop firmly in front of the battered old car that sputtered weakly from under the bonnet, driven by an as yet unrecognizable figure... A moment later, Police Constable Morrison stepped out of the driver's seat, flaming red hair streaked with grey flying slightly in the wind, uniform straight and pristine, even though his eyes were shot with blood, as though he'd been drinking; Gene saw those same eyes narrow as his new mentor looked him up and down from head to toe.

"Sort yer uniform out," he growled, nodding to Gene's un-donned helmet and glowering. "You look like a tramp in fancy dress." Gene followed the orders swiftly, jamming the helmet on and standing straight as Morrison nodded his reluctant approval; feeling his pulse throb with excitement and adrenaline, Gene obeyed silently as the other man motioned for him to get in the car.

"First rule of the force," Morrison growled, starting the car up and grimacing against the loud sputtering noise of the engine. "You do as I say, yer don't fall down any holes, an' as far as you're concerned, the world revolves around me, my bacon, and my bloody car; understood?"

"Yes, sir," Gene nodded, biting back the immediate response that they were of the same rank in favour of simplicity.

"An' don't expect to be picked up every day either; you find yer own way to the station from now on - I'm only 'ere today 'cause me Mam had some new whiskey in she wanted me to try."

Gene nodded again, and Morrison turned his eyes back to the road, blinking a few times before putting his foot down and taking off down the gravel path in a slightly uneven line; Gene took a few moments to wonder if his companion was safe to drive, then promptly decided that he didn't care.

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"Bloody hell!" Gene exclaimed, blanching as the car shuddered to a halt, directly before the crowd of drunken brawlers spilling from the nearest pub, roaring with indignation and fury as they flew at each other with glasses and bottles; Morrison answered his unasked question with a grunt, evidently annoyed as the engine died down and he placed a hand on the door.

"This is why pubs close at eleven," he growled. "Bloody bastard landlord thought he'd 'ave a lock in, and us lucky buggers get to clean up the shift at nine AM." He opened the door with a grunt, settling one foot on the pavement and glancing back at Gene's pale face with a dark glower. "Buckle up Hunt, yer soft nonce; if I get glassed, I'll personally cut off yer manhood and feed it to a bunch of piranhas."

Gene blanched, getting out of the car in a hurry and grimacing as a tall, fat man flattened his skinny, short opponent with a single punch to the face; other uniformed officers were spilling out of patrol cars similar to Morrison's on the other side of the street and a moment later all hell broke loose as one particularly stupid bobby aimed a kick between a menacing punters legs; Gene took a few seconds to search blindly for a weapon, his hand eventually coming to a close around the truncheon at his waist and allowing him to draw it swiftly into the face of an oncoming assailant.

He felt a thrill of victory, a sudden rush of adrenaline and power, before there was a sharp, blinding pain at the back of his head, and he crumpled.

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"I told you to be careful, Gene," his mother's scolding voice was the first thing he was aware of, but he felt himself groan his anger, embarrassment and frustration a moment later, pushing her hand from his shoulder and sitting up quickly – too quickly it transpired; the world was spinning violently and sickeningly, and a moment later he lay down again, groaning with pain as his hand touched the back of his head.

"Didn't they tell you to avoid glass bottles at all costs?" Madeline muttered, pulling his hand away.

"I wasn't looking at the bloody bottle, Mam," he growled. "I was too bothered by the ruddy great fat bloke trying to knee me in the-!"

"Mind your language!" She reprimanded swiftly. "You're worse than a sailor with your gutter mouth; it's not polite, Gene!"

Gene mumbled something incoherent, accepting the cup of water she pushed into his hands and swallowing with a grimace. "Haven't we got anything stronger?" He muttered, though he still drank obediently as his mother tutted disapprovingly, before opting to ignore his latest comment.

"It's a good thing that nice young man pulled you off the floor," she murmured, "you'd have been deader than a very dead corpse if he'd left you by the sounds of it!"

"You mean Morrison?" Gene asked, sitting up again and ignoring the violent nausea that followed. "You mean he got out ok?" He felt relief edge into his tone, but it dispersed a few moments later as his mother pushed him back down, shaking her head and speaking with utter disapproval.

"Not Morrison," she answered. "Someone called Harris, I think it was – Ben Harris... _Morrison_ stayed well out by the sounds of it; Betty Diller saw the whole thing – it's a wonder nobody was killed, what with him slacking off for a drink!"

"Betty Diller talks out of her arse!" Gene snapped suddenly, surprising both himself and his mother with the sudden surge of unaccountable loyalty. "Morrison's a copper; he does something useful with his life! She spouts more crap than a regurgitating bog in a-!"

"Gene!" She snapped again, and this time he stopped, though his hands still fisted angrily in the sheets. "Your language is as bad as your fathers used to be!"

Gene glowered at her, his eyes wide, pride stinging slightly, but then he was out of the bed, on his feet in seconds, ignoring the swaying feeling of sickness and the taste of vomit rising in his throat as he headed out of the bedroom door, slamming it behind him and moving down the stairs as swiftly as he could; he heard her sigh in apology, heard her protest his movements, but by the time he'd bothered to take note, he was already in the kitchen, searching behind the saucepans for his father's dusty bottle of whiskey, which his mother had not yet got around to moving from its place in the rarely touched drinks cupboard.

He'd twisted off the lid and downed two gulps by the time Madeline appeared in the doorway, and a moment later he turned away from her, his mouth set in a grim line as he took another swig; he could feel the burn down his throat, feel the searing sheen of tears that coated the surface of his eyes, feel his trembling hands relax, feel himself breathe a relieved sigh... A moment later he lit up a cigarette, discarding the match and tossing it aside, even as she started to talk, her words making little or no impact.

"Put that away!" She insisted, nodding towards the whiskey, her voice cracking slightly. "It was bad enough when your father was doing it, Gene; don't you be getting yourself hooked, too."

With an air of defiance, Gene grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle, picked it up, and walked out of the room, stopping only to take a large gulp as he stood in front of her; he caught the hurt in her eyes, felt a slight twinge in his gut, then took another swig of whiskey and went back up the stairs.

He was out cold an hour later, with half a bottle of the stuff down his neck.

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"Get this runt a pint," Morrison muttered, pushing Gene towards the throng of uniformed officers and accepting a whiskey from the barman. "An' throw in some pork scratchings, too."

Gene grimaced, rubbing his aching head and eyeing the pint being pushed into his hand with uncertainty; it was the third day in a row he'd felt like this, and beer had never looked less appetising... But at the look from a nearby officer, he bit the bullet, chugging half of it down before settling the glass gently on the table; a smirk, an accepting nod, and Gene felt himself sigh with relief.

Coppers pub, he thought to himself, smiling and looking around at the midday crowd waiting to be offloaded to their respective posts; it felt good, and so, surprisingly, did his head, now that he'd downed half of the cool beer in one... Perhaps hair of the dog wasn't a myth after all...

He was about to down the other half of his drink when Morrison clapped him on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the door, and as quickly as they'd entered they were leaving. "Get moving newbie; coronation starts soon, an' if yer think the folk in 'ere are rowdy, you should see the lot at The Horseshoe... If that crown ain't on the Royal locks by lunch, we'll be draggin' 'em into the cells covered in sick, sweat and vomit."

Gene grimaced, swiftly taking another gulp from the pint of bitter, before following PC Morrison back out into the street.

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He couldn't help but frown as the crowd jostled one another, huddling around a small wireless radio that the barman had settled gingerly on the bar, each of them trying their best not to spill their respective drinks.

There was the unmistakeable tang of excitement in the air, radiating off people in waves as they toasted the soon-to-be Queen of England, and he felt a slight glow of pride in his stomach; Her Majesty's Royal Police Force did, as it happened, sound good. The room was draped with coronation flags, and someone had found a picture of the new monarch and pinned it over the price listings, making it instantly noticeable to anyone who was trying to order a drink.

A tug on his shirt made Gene look down, into the face of a nervous, if mischievous looking boy who was smiling shyly up at him. "Mrs Lutterworth's got a television," the boy muttered, jerking his head towards the door. "Come and watch; it's not far!" A wave of disappointment crested over Gene's desire to follow as he sighed, shaking his head.

"Sorry, pal," he murmured regretfully, offering a small smile. "Someone's got to look after this lot; besides, I'm with a friend."

"Your friend won't notice!" The boy insisted, nodding towards the bar swiftly. "He's talking to that fat man!" Gene followed his eyes, and sure enough, PC Morrison could be seen at the bar, standing out in his police uniform as he downed his second large whiskey of the day, whilst chatting enthusiastically to a familiar fat man whose name Gene couldn't quite place. He watched for a few seconds, ears searching for the noise of the radio, and failing; it was impossible to make anything out, and although he could imagine that the pub would fall silent once the Coronation service began, a wistful part of him was eager to see it, to watch it as it played out... Watching Morrison for a little while longer, Gene saw him order up another whiskey, and he felt himself smile. After four days with the bloke, he knew there was little more interesting to him than a shot of whiskey, so the likelihood of being pulled up on it was slim... The boy was right; he wouldn't notice.

With a last glance, and a small nod of agreement, Gene followed the boy out into the street, laughing as the youngster turned walking into running and called for him to follow; he did so, jogging easily beside the boy and up the colourfully bedecked street, coming to a stopping outside an average looking house which was teeming with unusual excitement and adrenaline.

Gene's escort took a few moments to tuck his shirt back into his trousers, hurriedly dusting himself down and flattening his hair, before leading the way into the house with an encouraging grin in Gene's direction.

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The sight Gene was met with as he walked down the hall towards the living room caused him to start slightly, watching on in baffled surprise as a stout lady in a floral blouse handed out small cups of fresh lemonade to a huddle of fifteen excited children all seated with their legs crossed on the orange coloured carpet, before a small television, which was placed on a tall table so that all occupants of the room could se. Behind the children stood a crowd of ten or so adults, three of the more elderly of them cramped together uncomfortably on the two-seater couch, along with a very pregnant lady, whilst the rest of them huddled around the chair and against the wall, holding untouched glasses of wine while watching the telly with an air of dignified respect.

The boy at Gene's side ran forwards and sat himself down, taking a glass of lemonade and murmuring something quietly to the lady in the blouse, before she moved across the room towards Gene; for a moment, he thought she'd ask him to leave, but a second later she found him a spare, clean, sparkling glass and filled it with wine, pressed it into his hand and landed a smacker on his cheek as she beamed up at him. He blinked with surprise, managing a slight nod of the head as she spoke.

"Happy Coronation Day, dear," she smiled, patting him on the arm as she moved across the room to stand beside a man who could only be her husband, since his right arm slid instantly around her waist as the service began.

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He'd never been one for celebrations, really; the drinking he could empathise with, but everything else had always fallen flat. But, he had to admit, when the crown settled on the new Queen's head, and she stood up with orb and sceptre in hand, there came a strange sense of joy and new beginnings, which had nothing to do with the cool glass of wine in his hand. Glancing across at his companions, he caught several women with tears leaking from their eyes, at the same moment that the men raised their hands in salute; he didn't even realize that he'd joined in with them until the same young boy from the pub tugged at his sleeve once more, grinning wildly up at him.

"Are you coming to the party, sir? There's gunna be music, and balloons and food and lemonade!" Excitement crept into the boys tone, making his words sound slightly breathless as he hopped from one foot to the other; Gene couldn't help grinning.

"Leave the nice policeman alone now, Billy," a soft voice scolded, and Gene glanced round to see the heavily pregnant woman, now cradling a sleeping toddler in one arm as she ruffled the boys' dark hair. "I'm sure he's very busy, today of all days."

"So you won't be there?" Billy asked, sounding disappointed as he turned back to look at him. Gene knelt down, resting one arm on his knee as he looked into the young boys saddened eyes.

"Course I will," he smiled, ruffling Billy's hair with his free hand and holding the wine glass in the other. "Right after I'm done keeping the streets clean; save us a lemonade, 'ey?" With a grin at the boy's mother, a word of thanks to the still sobbing Mrs Lutterworth in her floral blouse, and a quick swallow of wine, he left, jogging back down the crowded streets decked in red, blue and white as he headed back to The Horseshoe.

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As it turned out, he ended up at the party far quicker than he'd planned; PC Morrison had apparently become too swept up the jovialities of the day to concentrate on keeping order, and when Gene reached him he stank so strongly of whiskey that it was a wonder he wasn't bleeding the stuff.

In the end, the new PC found himself watching on practically sober, whilst his mentor joined in with the conga, his uniform becoming more and more ruffled as he went. He wasn't the only one enjoying himself, but more than once Gene had to drag a drunk away from a potential fight, usually arising over the simplest of things, such as the alignment of a balloon, or the symmetry of the drinking glasses. Once, a particularly rowdy pair of teenagers turned on one another, and Gene was forced to break them up with a harsh word and a jab in the ribs with the truncheon; they weren't drunk enough to argue, and were apparently so relieved to be free of a verbal warning for underage drinking that they made no further move at all.

All the while, Morrison got more and more drunk, and eventually he was to be seen giggling at a table with a sour looking woman whose face could have rivalled the back end of a pig; for some reason, Morrison seemed to be of the opinion he'd hit the jackpot, and his hand was edging further south with every drink she swallowed – in the end, Gene only laughed as his mentors mouth was assaulted, finding himself caught up in conversation with an enthusiastic Billy, who, it transpired wanted nothing more than to be a policeman.

"I'll stop murders, and shootings, and burglars, and kidnappers, and them nasty men that mummy doesn't like to talk about because they hurt women!" Billy listed them off with bright eyes, his smile shining with enthusiasm as he downed glasses and glasses of lemonade. "And I'll stop bombs, and I'll scare criminals, and I'll send them to prison until their heads fall off!"

Gene found himself chuckling along with amusement, good-heartedly accepting the lemonades that Billy pushed into his hands and drinking them silently, whilst secretly wishing his mentor wasn't so half-cut that Gene couldn't have had something more substantial himself.

It didn't matter though, he told himself. It was the first week; he'd have plenty of time to enjoy himself later.

With a sigh, he took a swig of lemonade and indulged Billy with an edited recount of his fight the previous day, omitting the rather painful glassing over the head, and including him instead with several more stories of crunching heads than could be considered strictly true; the boy listened in rapture, and Gene couldn't help the pleased smile that tugged on his lips.

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The house was quiet when he arrived back, now slightly more drunk after several drinks in The Railway Arms with a crowd of off-duty officers celebrating the coronation. A note on the scrubbed wooden table told him what he had already expected; his mother had gone to watch the coronation with Elizabeth Barnet, who had taken the fact she shared the new monarchs name as a sign that she should host the largest gathering of people in the whole of Manchester, complete with croissants, vol au vents and liver pâté - so much for patriotism.

Still buzzing slightly from the drink, the celebrations and the general atmosphere of the day, Gene headed up the wooden staircase, standing at the window on the landing and looking out into the expanse of open field before him, a cigarette at his lips as he took in the shadow of the house on the floor, and though longingly of escaping to a house of his own one day.

He'd never really liked this house; or perhaps it wasn't the house, so much as his experiences there... Whichever way he looked at it, though, most of his memories were filled with his drunken father beating around his mother, with her taking whatever she got and explaining all too often that he hadn't meant it... And then Stuart... well, some of the memories with him weren't all bad, but recently- Gene couldn't remember when he'd last heard his brother laugh. The last time he'd even seen him, Stuart had been so off his face with drugs that Gene could barely look at him, taking one glance at the white face and the bloodshot eyes before heading to the pub, getting record-breakingly drunk, and then sneaking off to the park with Wendy Bartridge... He smirked slightly at that, and then took another drag on his cigarette, sighing.

It wasn't a nice house, he concluded; there was nothing welcoming about it - not to him, anyway, despite the regular compliments about its quaintness and its setting. For him it was a prison, and he knew the only reason his mother had stayed was family loyalty; if her father hadn't broken tradition and left it to her rather than Gene's uncle, Madeline would have left a long time ago. Because away from the gesture her father had made, all it was to her was pain, suffering, and a constant reminder of Gene's layabout of a father, who had spent his time putting a large dent in the money jar when he hadn't been at war, before he finally buggered off to kingdom come a few years ago – in Gene's opinion, the bastards death couldn't have come soon enough.

Gene knew that since his father's death, and since battling with her own demons before deciding to stay, Madeline had begun to slowly erase every ounce of him from the house. She had taken on the painstaking task of redecorating the whole place by hand, having already stripped the wallpaper in the bedroom and painted the walls a pale yellow, moved the living room setup around and swapped all of the furniture, and gotten well and truly rid of the old rickety table that had been long situated in the kitchen; he wasn't certain it had helped her, but he had never questioned it; he knew she'd do as she saw fit and there was little he could do to help matters.

Smoking silently, he took in the gentle countryside, the slope of the hill, the fence separating Madeline's land from their neighbours... he'd never liked the neighbours, either, come to think of it. After the first time he and Stuart had been caught playing football on the top of the hill, it had become a silent competition to see who could get the closest to the neighbouring farmhouse without being caught... They hadn't ever finished the game, but he had the sinking suspicion that the old owners had long since passed away, leaving the house abandoned and the field unclaimed; since Stuart had taken up drugs, he'd barely even thought about growing up with him.

With a last drag on his cigarette, and a soft sigh of exasperation, he headed towards his bedroom, placing his helmet on Stuart's old bed and moving to unbutton his jacket, fingers easing the cool metal through the slits in the material...

It was a moment later that he froze, his head snapping upwards as the sound of drunken slurring reached his ears, accompanied by the crunch of feet on the gravel path outside.

"Bloody kids," he muttered, about to return to the task at hand, assuming they would stumble blindly onwards and collapse at the end of the road; a second later, he heard the loud crash of splintering glass, followed by the pattering of feet on grass, then scrambling limbs and falling objects as someone climbed through a window.

Anger rose in the pit of Gene's stomach, and a moment later he'd pulled the truncheon from his belt, hefting it in his hand and heading out onto the landing, treading lightly, avoiding the screeching floorboard on the uppermost step and moving down the stairs with stealth.

The lights were still off, and the doors were closed; the kitchen was silent, and the only noise came from the living room, slipping under the crack in the door as a combination of incoherent mumbles and pained grunts. Gene's heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline pounding through his veins, and as he passed the mirror in the hallway he caught a glimpse of himself, illuminated by a slither of moonlight coming through the nearby window; his hair was mussed, his uniform slightly dusty, giving him the rather impressive air of danger and darkness, but it was the glint in his eyes that gave him confidence- the same glint that Gary Cooper got in his eyes when he was about to face up to Frank Miller... He edged closer to the door with a smirk on his lips, listening carefully, hearing distinct mutterings, the knocking of objects, the grunts of annoyance... As he got close enough, he pressed his ear up against the wooden door, frowning as the room on the other side fell quiet, then feeling his heart race ever faster as an owl hooted outside; he heard a nervous gasp, a grunt, a quiet click, and a second later he'd stepped back, aiming a well placed kick at the hinge that had been creaking for years; the door banged open and he barged into the room, truncheon in hand and face of thunder.

At the same moment that he entered, the sole occupant of the room turned round, dark eyes mad, brown hair in disarray and tattered black coat hanging from his shoulders; Gene just had long enough to note the flaring anger in the other mans eyes, and to take in the small black shotgun in the man's right hand, before a loud bang sent everything plunging into darkness.

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**So, I took a few liberties; I'm not sure if Gene lived in the farmhouse or if he was passing by, but it suited my purposes to have it happen this way. I also have no idea what the person who shot Gene was like, so for me, he was just a hobo with a gun... If Keats can be the devil, tramps can have guns :p**

**Anyway, let me know what you thought of this first instalment :-)**

**Thanks for taking the time to read.**

**Mage of the Heart**


	2. Forgetting The Crows

**I don't own Ashes to Ashes/Life on Mars or any of the characters etc. **

**Thanks for the positive feedback on the last chapter; hope this one will work for you, too :-)**

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He was falling, falling into the black, plunging towards a darkness that was unbroken by light; there was nothing, just long, huge expanses of opacity, and the distant call of music, music he didn't recognise, and laughing that sounded both hauntingly eerie and wonderfully welcoming at once.

He struggled to move, he tried to scream, to shout, to call for help, but there was nothing, nobody, no sound, no light, no life...

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Gene sat up with a start, gasping for breath, heart pounding violently in his chest, sweat beading profusely from his brow. His hand stung viciously, and when he glanced down, it was to see rivulets of blood running down his palm from a deep gash, embedded in which was a shard of blue glass he recognized from his mothers vase. He groaned, jerking the offending shard from the wound with a grimace before pulling himself up to his feet, head spinning violently as he steadied himself against the sideboard with his uncut hand... A moment later, he frowned.

A thick layer of dust coated the wooden surface, one that hadn't been there the night before, and though the flags that hung from the wall were still bright with colour, they were covered in a similar sheen that caused him to frown with blatant confusion. He looked around in panic, eyes taking in the surrounding room, scanning swiftly from the broken remnants of the vase, to the shattered window, to the mud trampled carpet... It was, presumably, the sign of a very good night that had rendered him incapable of memory, although even that explanation left the dust unexplained... And he was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whilst he hadn't been resolutely sober upon making the journey home, he hadn't had difficulty walking, or fitting the key in the lock...

A crow squawked from outside, and his head snapped up as the noise was carried through the shattered window, his blue eyes piercing as the bird took off from a nearby tree, lifting itself higher and higher as the wind caught beneath its coal black wings. It was with a strange, morbid fascination that he moved forwards toward the window, ignoring the heavy tread of his boots as it crunched already splintered glass into the carpet, stepping into the shafts of sunlight peeking through the open window as his eyes followed the crows' flight upwards, a striking dot of black against the vivid blue sky. He watched as it circled above the tree, followed its movement as it dipped low once more, then let his eyes wander along with it as it passed upwards, over the neighbours hill, past the fence that separated the fields, and the scarecrow that adorned the-

He blanched, stepping forwards and grasping the window ledge with his hand; he barely even noticed as the sharp edges of glass that were still held in the frame sliced into his flesh, and nor did he feel the warm blood spilling down his wrist as he stared.

His eyes drifted over the unfamiliar black coated figure, over the straw body, the outstretched arms... And then his gaze drifted down, to the brown dirt at the scarecrows base, cut in a large rectangle, sprouting shoots of green from the filthy mud and the rotten earth... He swallowed, frowned, stared a little while longer, then flinched slightly as a bright glinting caught his eye; his head jerked upwards, and his eye was caught by something small at the scarecrows shoulder, glaring at him and burning his irises as it reflected the suns light magnificently.

He didn't know why he did it; he didn't know what made him move, what made him clamber through the window and take off up the hill at a run; it made no sense, held no logic, no understanding, no reason, but a second later he was racing towards the fence, clambering over it as he and Stuart used to do, sprinting up the stretch of grass and listening to the hammering of his heart, three beats to every fall of his foot on the soft earth beneath his feet. His breathing was ragged, every breath tearing at his lungs, the muscles in his legs burning, straining, trembling, for reasons he didn't understand...

And then he was there, stood at the top of the hill, surrounded by open air, grass, trees, the smell of the mud, the rush of the wind... And at his feet there was mud, recently turned, but settled now as it covered whatever lay beneath its surface.

He stared at it for a moment, grossly fascinated as he watched a worm wriggle, a beetle crawl, a spider scurry... Then his eyes were drawn to the scarecrow itself, his gaze tracking up the body as his heart pumped viciously, pounding at the back of his throat... He took in the somehow familiar muddied jacket, the five silver buttons... and then he looked at the shoulders, following the silver glint that glared against his eyes, stepping forward without thought or question.

He was beside it in two steps, his hands running over the new and muddied coat, feeling the grain of the fabric, the cool metal of the buttons, the slight stickiness at the neckline where something stained its surface, the broad cut of the shoulders, the fineness of the stitching, the chill of-

He froze, his hand stilling on the shoulder at the touch of metal beneath his fingers, and in that moment his eyes widened, his heart pounded, his legs trembled... He stared for a moment, blinded by the reflection of the sun on the brilliantly silver metal before him, until he stepped to the side, putting the sun behind him and staring open-mouthed at the familiar numbers, attached firmly to the fabric and glinting up at him like a beacon. His first finger traced the curve of the metal six, tracking over the ridges and the smoothness of the silver as his vision flashed...

He saw himself in the mirror, his eyes glinting like Gary Cooper.

He saw the door collapsing beneath his foot as he banged into the living room.

He saw a man; mad-eyed, wild hair, swathed in a dirty black coat that hung from his shoulders, holding a gun in his right hand, pulling the trigger, grinning grossly as the bullet flew...

And then Gene was being pulled, dragged, carried up the hill like a rag doll, and the man was laughing, swearing, cursing, crying, sobbing, cackling... There was the sound of digging, the grating of hoarse laughter, the sound of wicked amusement, the crunch of hard mud as a spade drove into it, over and over...

And then it was cold, damp, dirty, smelling of mud... And the ground beside him was pierced; the cackling went on, the howling, the whooping, the violent joy...

And the view changed, and the man was knelt in the dirt, screeching with laughter as he dragged stolen clothing over the crudely fashioned scarecrow; a bale of hay stood nearby, patches torn from it in haste... He must have been working for hours, but the man's mad joy was as vibrant and sickly as it had been on his journey up the hill, wild and unchecked as he laughed down at the shallow hole he had dug...

Gene had a fleeting glimpse of his own mangled, pale face, before he fell away, his fingers breaking contact with the metal as he gasped and stumbled backwards, falling to his knees as he struggled for breath, grasped at his chest, swallowed against his dry mouth... He stared at the mound of earth before him, terrified by it, and yet magnetised to it, repelled by it, and yet inexplicably fascinated...

It couldn't be him, he told himself; he couldn't be above and below ground. There was no circumstances in which that could be possible... and he was here; living, breathing, knelt above the dirt, complete with hammering heart and ragged gasps...

He couldn't be dead; if he were dead, there would be nothing, no one; he wouldn't be able to smell the dirt, taste the air, hear the crows, feel the ground beneath him... He wouldn't feel the warm trickle of blood, the rush of the wind, the dryness of his throat...

But as he looked up at the scarecrow, his eyes were drawn instantly to the shoulder, and his gaze fell without thought upon the familiar epaulette number which had been attached to the jacket, the jacket that had been swathed around the figures shoulders... And as his fingers searched blindly at his own shoulder they came swiftly into contact with metal, closing around the coolness of it tightly as he turned his head to the side, his pulse drumming in his ears as he looked down at the silent confirmation...

His eyes took it in, widening as he turned back to the scarecrow, feeling a foreign sting behind his eyes, tasting vomit and bile in his throat as the identical epaulette number glared violently back at him; 6620.

And he knew in that moment, without a shadow of a doubt, or a question as to why, that it was him.

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He knew he was running, knew that his legs and chest were burning and his heart was hammering in his chest, but he felt nothing but cold, bitter chills racing down his spine as he tore across the familiar landscape, down the gravel path and past the bare fields that surrounded the house.

He should have been floating, swirling, drifting along on the edge of existence, of life, of anything; he was here, and he was two feet under, covered in shit and dirt deserving of a stray dog, yet somehow still running, breathing, gasping, living... His mind whirred, his vision flickering between the maddened eyes, the cackling man, the barrel of a gun, the mangled face of an all too familiar corpse...

He kept running against all reason, defying the pain in his limbs and the sting of dust in his eyes as he kept on going, waiting for the world to crumble, for the floor to fall away and death to envelop him in its cool embrace, only it never did; the landscape was exactly as he'd always known it to be – the grass was the same shade of green, the trees were scarred with the same battered bark, and the roads were as uneven and bumpy as he'd ever known them...

But it wasn't real; as the mad cackle echoed over and over in his ears, as the gun sounded and the grave was dug, he knew that it wasn't real, knew that it was beyond reality and comprehension... Because it wasn't possible to survive a shot to the head; it wasn't plausible to wake up from such a wound without so much as a scratch on your face, and it was beyond comprehension that you could see your own grave in the garden that you'd once played in...

He kept running, knowing that, sooner or later, he'd have to stop remembering, stop thinking, stop seeing, stop feeling, stop smelling... But it didn't happen; he ran until his limbs shuddered beneath him, ran until he slumped to the ground, gasping for breath and struggling to stop his legs spasming with exhaustion. He was weak and shattered, and he found himself face down in the dust, gasping, sobbing, feeling a single tear track down his cheek, watching with an odd sense of fear as it slid down his nose, splashing to the dirt and soaking instantly into the dust.

His throat burned, his hair flopped into his eyes, and though his heart was hammering loudly and violently, the only thought that occupied his mind was the aching, raging injustice that outdid the pain and the fear; his only thought was of a young copper, lost to the dust in a matter of seconds, and brushed aside with the rubble.

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He stumbled through the doors of The Railway Arms, covered in dirt, dust, and sweat. The summer sun had tinged his skin pink, and his dusty uniform was wrinkled and out of place, but he found himself not caring, freezing in the doorway at the familiar and yet foreign room he found himself in.

It was the same; same carpet, same bar, same price listings, same glasses, same photograph of the Queen pinned up... But the company was different; the ten or so Bobby's that looked at Gene so distastefully were people he had never met. The plain clothes officers eyed him with frowns that wrinkled the entirety of their foreheads, and the easygoing, plump bar man that had always graced the bar had been replaced by a tall, skinny, long-haired black man, who could at the most have been twenty years old, but was dishing out drinks as though he'd spent eternity doing so. The Jamaican accent that carried across the room caused Gene to frown, glancing at the other punters and awaiting the inevitable 'nigger' comments... None came; in fact, if Gene strained his ears, he might go so far as to say they were joking with him. He swallowed, avoiding the numerous looks of disgust that were sent his way and making a swift beeline for the bar, settling himself as far from the crowd as possible, and eyeing the still bleeding wound in his hand with trepidation.

"What can I get yer?" The Jamaican accent cut through Gene's thought, and he snapped his head up a moment later, staring into friendly brown eyes and feeling his jaw clench.

"Nothin'," he muttered, leaning back against his chair and swallowing slightly. "I'm not staying..."

"You're new," the barman smirked, grabbing a glass and pouring a double whiskey, which he settled on the bar with a grin. "They all say that when they're new... Not used to the brown face, 'ey mon brav?"

"I'm a copper," Gene growled, taking the whiskey and slamming it down his throat without a word of thanks. "I ain't your 'brav'."

"'Course not," he smiled, taking the now empty glass from the bar. "It's Nelson, if yer need to talk; lot o' talkin' goes on here." He turned away, refilling the glass in his hand with whiskey and settling it back on the bar. "On the house," Nelson smiled warmly, nodding at him in a friendly gesture before moving away to serve a pair of officers on the other side of the room; Gene stayed quiet, downing the second drink as swiftly as the first, at the same moment that a large fist slammed down in front of him.

"Y'know lad, there was a time when wearing 'er Majesty's uniform was an honour, not an excuse for a roll in the dirt!" Gene looked up, feeling his fist clench slightly as the scowling officer looked down at him, mouth set in an angry line. The other man was wearing the same uniform, practically sparkling with cleanliness and oozing smartness and decorum; Gene might even have gone so far as to say the other man polished his epaulette numbers, if he hadn't been battling with the overwhelming desire to thump him in the face.

"You not got anything to say fer yerself?" The man snarled, slamming his fist down again; Gene bristled, and a moment later he'd grabbed the other PC by the scruff, slamming him against the wall and pushing their faces to within an inch of one another.

"You're right," Gene hissed. "There was a time like that. An' there was also a time when a bloke could walk into 'is living room without gettin' shot in the head, or sit in 'is local without getting nagged by some bastard who thinks 'e's God's bloody gift!" Gene's grip tightened, jerking the other man once again so his back slammed into the wall. "So as far as you're concerned," he growled, "If I want to traipse in 'ere with my bollucks hangin' out an' a great big tattoo on my arse, I'll do it, alright?"

The other officers fist connected with his cheek a second later, knocking Gene's face to the side and catching him off-guard; his hands were behind his back and his face pressed into the wall a moment later, hot, angry breath burning across the flesh of his ear. "You listen here, sonny," the other PC growled. "I don't give a prozzies left tit if you had yer bollucks burnt off in a Chinese prison!" He followed his speech with a sudden movement, grabbing Gene by the hair and slamming his face into the wooden bar at his side, which was immediately followed by a loud crack as Gene's nose splintered. The older man ignored it, pressing harder and practically spitting in Gene's ear. "I've been on this beat since the war, an' if there's one thing I hate worse than Nazi scum, it's sloppy young coppers who pretend they've got bigger balls than a black gigolo, but when push comes to shove they've got nuts the size of a squirrels, and brains smaller than an ants!"

Gene tried to retort, but his mouth was filled with blood, and it was only as he began choking that the other man let go, aiming a firm elbow jab at Gene's lower back and causing him to crumple; he took five seconds to get his breath back, before struggling to his feet and turning himself around.

Before he could draw his hand back to retaliate, his face connected with a solid fist, and everything went black.

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When he came to, he could feel something cold pressed against his nose, contrasting with the burning, searing pain that stretched down the bridge and flared across his right cheek. He was dimly aware of muttering, talking, which became slowly clearer as his eyes flickered open and his vision cleared, revealing that he was still in The Railway Arms, and was propped against the wall, with a large towel-wrapped bundle held to his nose by the very same man who'd broken it. He bit back a vicious, angry comment, seeing the warning glower, followed by an almost friendly smirk as the other man picked something up from the floor and handed it over, still keeping whatever cold bundle it was pressed against Gene's face.

He took the slight, brown leather wallet, and flicked it open with a familiar, cold sense of dread in his stomach, looking at the picture of his own face, the scrawl of his own signature, and biting back vomit; without thinking, he snapped it shut and went to toss it aside, only to have his wrist caught and fingers closed against his will.

"You're in a coppers boozer, Hunt," the older man warned softly, eyes flashing. "If you're chucking in the towel, wait 'til you've buggered off 'ome."

Gene could feel himself glowering, but it went ignored by the older PC as he stood up and motioned to Nelson with a hand; Gene himself had to hurriedly lift a hand to his face to stop the chilled bundle from slipping from his cheek, just as the other man spoke.

"Get the lad a double whiskey, Nelson; he's whiter than me Mam's arse on snow day."

When the drink was handed over, he knelt down and pushed it into Gene's spare hand, smirking slightly as he nodded to Gene's injured face. "You'll learn," he grinned, taking a swig of the beer Nelson offered him and wiping the froth from his upper lip. "An' while you're learning, you can tell me when a young'un like you learnt to talk like that; I've 'eard better mannered sailors than you."

When Gene didn't reply, the other man sighed, downing the last dregs of beer and shaking his head. "See you in the morning, Hunt; clean yer uniform and scrub yer shoes - I'm not traipsing around with a miserable looking flea-bag fer the next three or four years." Gene took a moment to process the words, and then felt his head fall back against the wall as he closed his eyes tightly; only in death could he have started a fight with his new mentor.

"It's Harry," the other man chuckled, and when Gene glanced down he saw a large, calloused hand outstretched in solidarity; with a grimace, he placed the whiskey on the floor and shook the proffered hand. "Or PC Outhwaite," Harry smirked, eyes glinting, "if you piss me off."

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Two hours later, he knew he was pissed, even though logic dictated that being pissed was impossible when he was dead; surely it didn't matter how much crap he drank, if he'd already copped it?

His speech, his coordination, and Nelson, however, all seemed to be proof to the contrary; despite his best efforts, he was slurring his words, knocking his glass, spilling his drink and almost over-balancing on the chair, to the point that the Jamaican barman was voicing his concern with every drink that he poured. Gene didn't point out that, however much he was protesting, the other bloke was still giving it out almost instantly.

"Shouldn' be 'ere," Gene mumbled, knocking back another whiskey and blinking to try and clear his vision, slumping on the bar as Nelson eyed him with a combination of worry and amusement. "Wasshot," he drunkenly went on, shaking his head in disbelief. "In the head... Shouldn' be 'ere..."

Nelson wiped the glass in his hand with the drying towel, saying nothing, but watching Gene almost warily as he went on.

"Dead," he muttered. "Buried... bloody tramp blew m' face off... covered me in shit... bloody tramps..."

"You ain't dead, Mister 'unt," Nelson offered, shaking his head. "Not while you're still living."

Gene stared dumbly for a few moments, the latest drink frozen on the way to his mouth before he blinked, shaking his head and downing the burning whiskey in one. "What d'you know?" Gene muttered, more to himself than to Nelson. "You're a bloody foreigner." He was out of his chair a moment later, swaying where he stood, oblivious to Nelson's chuckle as the barman reached under the till.

"Your keys 'ere," Nelson offered, holding out a pair of identical keys on two intertwined rings. At least, Gene thought there were two... it was hard to tell when he was swaying like a boat at sea. "Flats down the street, second door on yer right; the key should get yer in. Beds made up; the last bloke only left yesterday, said you'd be 'ere soon enough."

Gene stared slightly, and then frowned. "Got a house," he muttered, scratching his head dumbly. "I've got- house..."

"Take the flat, Mister Hunt," Nelson offered, nodding encouragingly as he added softly. "You won't get back 'ome now..."

Gene looked down at himself, swaying on the spot, legs trembling beneath him; the bloke was probably right. With a grunt, he took the key from Nelson's hand and turned away; as the door closed behind him, he thought he heard a soft chuckle, but he was already stumbling down the street before it registered.

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Gene awoke the next morning with a painful groan, his head pounding violently against dehydration whilst he attempted to wet his cotton dry mouth by swallowing.

He shoved himself up from the rickety bed and headed towards the sink situated on the opposite side of the room, twisting the tap full circle and putting his mouth underneath it, swallowing down large mouthfuls of water as the liquid soothed the burning in his throat.

It was five minutes later, when his mouth didn't so distinctly resemble cardboard, that he pulled away, walking back over to the bed and sinking into the mattress with a grunt, burying his head in his hands and trying to recall the previous evening.

He remembered fighting, he thought, attempting to ignore the blinding pain that spread across his right cheek as he recalled the crunching sensation of bone splintering against wood. He remembered fighting with his new mentor, and he remembered Nelson giving him a key... the key to this flat, if he recalled correctly, although why he'd decided to stay here instead of going home was beyond him; he didn't think he'd been that drunk. In any case, he knew he'd definitely been worse in the past, and it had never stopped him going home before... Although, now that he came to think of it, living closer to the station could well provide a respite from the two mile walk home every evening, and if the flat was free then-

He jerked upright at the heavy sound of knocking, staring at the front door with a frown, before dragging himself from the bed and opening the door; he grimaced when sunlight burned his irises, and it took several moments for him to be capable of anything other than blinking.

When his vision cleared enough that he was no longer blinded, Gene recognised the hulking figure of Harry Outhwaite, dressed as before in a uniform that practically glittered with cleanliness.

Glancing down at himself self-consciously, Gene grimaced, looking at the dirty uniform and cringing inwardly; if he'd thought about it the night before, he'd have at least discarded the damn thing so he wasn't walking around resembling a dirty origami stick man... As it was, his jacket and trousers were wrinkled, slathered with dust, and strongly resembled some prehistoric, dirt spattered artefact from a museum. When he looked back up into Harry's face, he gritted his teeth.

"Thought I told you to respect that uniform, not bloody bathe in it?" Harry's voice was terse and annoyed, but he handed over a clothes brush as though he had expected nothing else, and crossed his arms patiently whilst Gene proceeded to dust himself down swiftly.

"Christ," Harry muttered, sniffing slightly as Gene carried on, and crinkling his nose with a grimace. "You must've been pissed; you stink like a brewery! How much did you have?"

"Too much," Gene muttered, shaking his head blankly as he added, "and not enough... Can't remember anything before grabbing you."

"Probably for the best," Harry shrugged, watching him with a bored expression before he went on. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost or something; better to flush that sort of crap out with a bottle of whiskey than rememb-" He froze, glancing at Gene's pale face and frowning, feeling his brow crinkle as he looked at him. "Hunt?"

Gene blinked, frowning, stilling in his movements as his vision flashed with fragments of imagery that held no coherence; a dusty road, a crows call, a shard of glass in his palm...

"Hunt!" Harry's voice was more fierce and abrupt this time, and Gene snapped his neck up to look at him, blinking hurriedly and then shaking his head.

"What?" he asked, his frown deepening. "What d'you say?"

"Oh, wake up," Harry grumbled. "If I wanted to drag around a useless bag of shit, I'd have brought the Missus! Grab a drink, and hurry up – there's a brawl down Baker Street we were meant to be at fifteen minutes ago; some tart wound the punters up the wrong way, and now it's like watchin' five dogs fightin' over the same bone."

"Prozzie?" Gene muttered, drawing his cigarettes from his pocket and grimacing when he realized there were only two left, before swiftly lighting one up.

"Barmaid," Harry answered, lighting up a cigarette of his own and then pushing back from the door with a grin that matched Gene's own.

"Not far off then," Gene smirked, checking his pockets swiftly for matches and warrant card, before following Harry into the street.

"Wait till you see her," the older PC chuckled, leading the way down the street at a swift jog. "Eighteen years old, tits the size of melons, legs up to her neck, and an arse like Grace Kelly."

Gene grinned, shaking his head as they rounded the street corner and followed the sound of angry shouting towards Baker Street.

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"Yer need to get some muscle on them bones o' yours."

The voice was soft, teasing, and lilted with flirtation, and Gene felt a bristle of anger shoot up his spine as he opened his eyes. "An' I'm not the only one who thinks so."

The smile he was met with served to do nothing but aggravate him further, and a moment later Gene was on his feet, swaying slightly as the dizzying pain in his head and at the backs of his knees made his eyes water.

As he steadied himself, he tried to remember what had happened; he could just recall landing several blows with the truncheon on numerous brawlers, cracking several bones and somehow stopping a large, burly man from breaking Harry's skull, before someone had taken out his legs and sent him sprawling to the ground to the beat of Lita Roza's 'How Much Is That Doggie In The Window'...

"You're awake then?" Harry's voice was concerned, but amused as it broke through Gene's thoughts, and he pushed a drink into Gene's hands as he spoke. "You need to toughen up; went down faster than a sack of potatoes, and if our Jonny over there hadn't been watchin' out for you, you'd have been as dead as a dodo."

Gene followed Harry's line of sight, expecting to see another Bobby; instead he was met with the sight of a man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a red and white checked shirt, which was tucked into a pair of belted, faded blue jeans. His brown hair was combed slightly to one side, and a cigarette dangled from his lip, smoke rising upwards in wispy tendrils. There was a tear on the sleeve of his shirt, and his jeans were splattered with small red droplets that could only be blood, but the man was smiling, and Gene had to admit to finding him instantly likeable.

"Nice to see you on yer feet, kid," Jonny grinned. "I'd shake yer hand, but since I 'ad the unsavoury job of hauling yer arse off the floor, we can skip the formalities; buy us a drink an' we'll call it even – mines a pint." He nodded over his shoulder, and Gene realized for the first time that they were in a bar; it wasn't The Railway Arms, but it was similarly decorated, and a few Coronation flags still draped across the room.

With a grin, a nod in Jonny's direction, and a hurried fumbling in his pocket, Gene headed for the bar, ordering the drinks and absently appreciating the figure of the barmaid, eyes trailing down from the long blonde hair, the blue eyes and the full lips, to the chest, and down the long, endless legs... As she placed his drinks on the bar, he blanched, swallowing hard and slamming the whiskey he'd intended for Harry down his throat; she smirked, placed another down knowingly before him, and leaned forwards enough that he could see down her top.

"If those eyes of yours watched scum so well, you'd make a decent copper," she teased, reaching over and dusting something off his uniform; Gene's eyes narrowed, and he caught her wrist with his hand, eyes flashing.

"An' if you stopped flashing yer knickers to the punters, there'd be no scum 'ere to catch."

She smirked, tugging her hand free and lighting up a cigarette, exhaling in his direction as she shook her head. "We both know that's not true; if I wasn't here, they'd just be fightin' over football." She nodded at something, and Gene followed her line of sight towards Harry as she spoke. "Your friends are missin' you; wouldn't want to keep 'em waiting."

He nodded slightly, grabbing the drinks from the bar and sweeping one final appreciative glance over her figure, before heading back over to Harry and Jonny; he told himself he didn't see the roll of notes Harry slipped into his jacket pocket, and settled the drinks on the table as though he were none the wiser.

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**Again, I've taken some liberties; I'm not sure the scarecrow was wearing the uniform, but it worked better for my purposes ::) **

**Hope it was alright – trying to draw on the few titbits we got from LOM about Gene's past, so I hope it's working.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Mage of the Heart**


	3. Better A Few Dozen Shillings

**I don't own Ashes to Ashes/Life on Mars or any of the characters etc. **

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"Better run," Jonny muttered fifteen minutes later, swallowing down the last dregs of his second beer. "Meant to be getting in a delivery later, an' if I'm late it'll be my bollucks on the scratching post." He held out his hand to Gene, smiling warmly as they grasped hands, although Gene was certain that his own reluctance to do was tangible in the air.

"Nice meetin' you, Gene," Jonny grinned. Nodding towards Harry, he added, "You keep our old mucker here out of trouble, 'ey?" Harry smiled slightly at his side and drained the last drops of his own drink, before clapping Jonny good-naturedly on the shoulder and nodding towards the door.

Gene could only nod his agreement, return the firm grasp on Jonny's hand, and then turn back to the bar as the pair of them moved swiftly towards the door, both muttering in low undertones, with words that remained thankfully indecipherable.

"Another o' these," Gene muttered, pushing his empty whiskey glass across the bar towards the barmaid, and glancing back as Harry shook Jonny's hand, feeling his eyes narrow and his fist clench.

"Do you coppers ever work?" The barmaid teased, pushing the newly filled glass back at him. Gene said nothing, feeling his heart sink slightly as his eyes were drawn back to his mentor once again; the barmaid sighed, leaning forwards on the bar and tilting her head slightly to catch his eye. "Whatever you're thinking about our Harry, stop it," she murmured softly, smiling slightly. "He's a good'un," she assured him.

"Is he?" Gene muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Last I checked, good coppers don't take wads o' cash off blokes in pubs; most of 'em start askin' how a scruff-arsed bastard like 'im found that kind o' money in the first place."

"Harry's a good bloke," she repeated, watching as he downed his drink in one, before continuing softly. "He went to war, saved three blokes from a burnin' building, an' got shot in the leg in the process; he even got a medal for it... Next time you're walkin', watch him; 'e puts more weight on the left leg, 'cause it hurts less."

"Doesn't make him right," Gene retorted, downing the refill she pushed his way without a word of thanks. "I got glassed round the head and 'ad me nose broken in the space of a day, but I ain't takin' money out of yer till and linin' me pockets."

"He's just gettin' by," she murmured, eyes filled with warning. "He's a legend round 'ere; war hero, turned copper – people want to see him doin' well."

"So set up a charity an' call it 'Bleeding Sympathy'," Gene muttered, glowering slightly. "He's meant to be enforcin' the law, not bendin' it."

"You tellin' me you wouldn't take a perk?" she asked, eyebrows rising, blue eyes fixing upon his and searching in their depths.

"Yeah," Gene answered smoothly, his tone unshaken, but edged with steel as his gaze remained steady upon hers. "You tellin' me I should?"

"I'm telling you people do," she answered easily, shaking her head slightly. "It's not a crime to want to live right, Copper."

"It is when yer doin' it with dirty money," Gene growled, motioning for another whiskey and bristling with visible anger. "You can't mix with scum; there's the law and there's the muck – that's it!"

"Yer can't stop everything," she answered, passing another drink over with a slight, worried frown. "Surely it's better to keep in line with the burglars and stop the murderers, than to lose the whole lot?"

"Doesn't work that way," Gene spat, watching Harry and Jonny closely as they spoke in the doorway, huddled together conspiratorially. "You let a burglar off the hook for a couple o' titbits on the latest murder, then two years down the line he knifes 'is old dears, and it's more than yer knackers are worth to turn him in, 'cause he's got yer bollucks, job and family strung up like a Christmas turkey!"

"Well if you will be a pessimist..." the barmaid muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes as she lit up a cigarette and shook her head. "You're never gunna stop everyone; better a few extra shillings in yer pocket than a few dozen knives in yer back."

Gene shook his head, moving to light up a cigarette, only to discover he'd smoked the last one; as if reading his mind, she picked up her own packet and pushed one across the bar, receiving a single word of thanks from Gene before he struck a match and took a deep, long drag.

"So Jonny's clean, is he?" He asked eventually, watching Harry closely, wondering how long the two of them would stand there whispering in hushed tones... When he turned back to her, she'd averted her eyes, and he watched her with scrutiny as he pressed on. "Just a burglar? Nothing worse than that?"

She shrugged, taking a deep puff on her own cigarette and moving away to serve an old man at the other end of the bar; he watched her, noted the way her hand shook slightly as she pulled the pint, and when she was done, he kept watching, knowing that sooner or later she'd look up, see him, and either have to leave, or talk; she chose the latter, sighing loudly as she sidled back over to stand before him.

"He's just a local lad," she said quietly, with an air of nonchalance. "Works in a factory, drinks in here every now and then... Nobody important in the bigger scheme of things..."

"You're a rubbish liar," Gene snarled softly, downing his whiskey and grimacing. "Is he scum?"

"No, he's not scum," she retorted, her eyes flashing slightly. "He's a small time lad, and he does what he can; he doesn't kill anyone, and he doesn't hurt anyone."

"Small time in what?" Gene pressed, shifting slightly closer and lowering his voice. "What's he doin' with Harry?"

She looked at him, her sharp blue eyes glittering with anger and resentment... A moment later, she'd shaken her head and turned to pour another drink. "I'm a barmaid," she murmured, setting the glass down on the bar before him. "I don't know anything, 'cept you owe us some money for all this booze."

Gene glowered at her, his piercing blue gaze clashing with her own, then dropped some coins on the bar, watching with a grim smirk as one rolled to the floor; he took a moment to admire the curve of her arse as she bent over to pick it up, then moved to join Harry at the door.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"What does Jonny do?" Gene posed the question as they walked down the street, moving towards a robbery that Harry had conveniently become aware of. Gene saw his mentors' eyebrow twitch, saw his jaw tighten, but aside from that, there was nothing in his outer demeanour of any note that might suggest he was hiding something.

"Works in a factory," Harry answered, running a hand through his dusty brown hair and shrugging to himself. "Don't know much else, 'cept 'e lives with his Mam and drinks like a fish."

"Yer don't get that kind of money working in a cotton factory, Harry," Gene growled, fist clenching in his pocket. "What does he do?"

Harry froze for a split second, glancing at him in surprise, then shook his head and kept walking, covering up his falter by dusting off his uniform. "I didn't say it was cotton," he answered coolly, lighting up a cigarette and exhaling gently. "I just said factory..."

"Doesn't change anything," Gene answered, gaze narrowed. "It's a factory; you don't get bundles o' notes to give to coppers by workin' on a belt all day."

Harry continued walking, saying nothing for a few moments, before finally answering, his voice clipped. "One thing you need to know about Jonny Saville, Hunt, and that's that 'e saved yer bacon; so whatever he does or doesn't do, you owe him now, an' don't forget it." He took another drag on his cigarette, and then stopped, looking at Gene carefully as he exhaled.

Gene met his gaze levelly, his eyes a cool, steely blue that refused to go ignored; he watched as Harry swallowed, taking another pull on his cigarette before speaking, his head and eyes averted. "He does some dealing," he murmured, "proper stuff, nothin' dodgy, just-"

"Drugs?" Gene snarled, glowering angrily. "You're playin' tit fer tat with a bloody _dealer_?"

"He's clean," Harry muttered, taking another drag and keeping his head turned away. "He keeps the supply clean, makes sure no dirt gets into it; one thing this city doesn't need is a bunch o' dead junkies, an' he sees to it that they're all-"

"It's still illegal!" Gene growled. "I don't give a rat's arse if it's clean or not, it's bloody-!"

"It's safer than having twenty odd knock-off coke dealers runnin' about!" Harry snarled in retaliation. "At least this way we know it's the real stuff and not-!"

"So what?" Gene hissed, stepping closer. "Does he give you a cut of the earnings? Give you a quick shoot when all that war-hero bollucks gets too much? The wife isn't puttin' out so take a puff of the magic dragon an' save yerself the aggravation? Is that i-?"

He was slammed face first into the nearest wall a second later, hand caught behind his back as Harry hissed angrily in his ear. "You're new," Harry growled, twisting Gene's arm slightly tighter behind his back. "So maybe you 'aven't learned yet, but round 'ere, people don't like murders an' stabbings an' whatever else on their doorsteps; doesn't look good in the press. So we sort it; that's our job!"

"Right up there with shootin' up on co-!" His face was slammed once more into the wall, and Gene fell quiet but for the pained groan that left his lips, whilst Harry went on.

"People do it," he growled, holding Gene's face against the brick. "They want to forget stuff, want somethin' new, something exciting... Me lockin' up Jonny Saville ain't gunna 'cause a drought; this way, we know it's clean, know it's safe, know it's not gunna kill dozens of kids 'cause they're too stupid to check what it is!"

Gene could feel himself bristle, felt anger thrumming in his veins, and a moment later, out of nowhere, he'd twisted free, kneeing Harry between the legs and grabbing his hair firmly as he slammed him into the wall. "He's scum!" He growled in his ear. "He's bastard, rotten, filthy _scum,_ and you're takin' money like a dog to the bone!" Harry's elbow connected with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and Gene fell away, stumbling backward as blood clogged up his nose and he struggled for breath. A second later, Harry struck out with his fist, sending Gene sprawling to the floor and towering over him with heavy breathing and a bloodied cheek.

"It ain't all roses, sonny," he muttered softly, looking down at Gene without a shred of remorse. "It's about a bit o' give an' take; we give 'em something, they give somethin' back."

"Like what?" Gene grunted, pushing himself up with his elbows. "A couple o' names of people he doesn't like? A few pints? Pretty girls on tap?"

"Scum." Harry retorted simply. "Dirty, bastard scum who run around stabbing knives in peoples guts; people you signed up to stop!"

"He's as bad as any of 'em," Gene answered, pulling himself to his feet and meeting Harry's eyes steadily. "He's still scum..."

"Let it go, Hunt," Harry muttered, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out with his foot. "He saved your life."

"I didn't ask him to," Gene retorted.

"No," Harry agreed, meeting Gene's eyes. "But you ain't sorry for it... So you remember that when you start dishing dirt; if there's one thing scum hate more than coppers, it's coppers who don't pay back their debts."

He lit up another cigarette, exhaled in Gene's direction, and then turned on his heel; bristling with frustrated anger, but knowing Harry's words were true, Gene had no choice but to follow.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A week passed by just the same; he watched with anger and frustration in his stomach as day after day they met with Jonny, watched on as Harry muttered conspiratorially in the corner before accepting a wad of money, then turning away and acting normal. Gene wanted to hate him; the sight of him mutilating everything that he was supposed to stand for hurt more than he could have comprehended. But despite his anger, as he watched Harry work, it became crystal clear that it wasn't just about the money.

He watched on in reluctant awe as his mentor cradled a weeping child against his chest whose father had been murdered; he sat in the background as Harry reassured a burgled old lady that they'd bring her gold necklace back safe; he watched as he brought down a man armed with a knife single-handedly in the midst of a pub brawl...

And then he watched as Harry beat up offenders on the informative say-so of Jonny Saville, without so much as a moment's hesitation.

And all the while, he was faced with an uncanny sense of admiration, watching as Harry brought criminals to justice, handed them over to the cells and closed the door on waves of scum; it didn't matter that they were just brawlers, burglars and petty thieves – as far as the people of Manchester were concerned, he was stopping the filth and keeping the streets clean, whatever methods he chose to employ... And if Gene turned his back at the less opportune moments, if he averted his eyes and ignored the hushed mutterings as his mentor conversed with his informants, he could convince himself that Harry was just a decent copper, a run-of-the-mill, ordinary, clean bobby stopping crime...

But every so often he'd turn to the side, catch Harry slipping money into his pocket, or buying the next round of drinks, or turning a blind eye as Jonny made an all-too blatant sale outside the pub, and the sick, nauseous feeling in his stomach returned tenfold.

The one time Gene moved to make the arrest himself, Harry slammed him viciously into the wall, and reminded him all too promptly of the incurred debt now hanging permanently over his head; he'd left the pub in anger, and stormed off into the night.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"It gets easier." Harry spoke quietly as they left The Railway Arms one night, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as his gruff voice sounded in the darkness of the empty street. Gene glanced sideways at him, his eyes disbelieving, before he lit up a cigarette and turned away, flicking the used match to the floor.

"Does it?" He asked, although the question emerged accusingly, and he could feel Harry's eyes on the back of his head.

"Yeah," Harry answered, exhaling from his cigarette loudly. "It does."

"Or maybe you just get rich," Gene muttered, taking a long drag to calm the raging anger that threatened to break through whenever they spoke about it. "Guess all that money pays fer the whiskey you need ter forget it."

"If you think I'm rich, Hunt," Harry chuckled, "you've got another thing coming; you don't get rich off druggie snouts."

"More's the pity," Gene answered blandly, turning to look at Harry with his eyes flashing slightly. "At least then you'd have a half-decent motive."

He turned on his heel without another word, heading swiftly down the street and leaving Harry in his wake; the other man made no move to follow, and a few moments later, Gene had disappeared from his sights.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gene wandered around for the next hour, heading down familiar streets and side alleys as he smoked one cigarette after another, feeling his heart rate calm as it hit his bloodstream, steadying his angry hand and granting him peace with which to contemplate his inner conflict.

He had found himself wandering aimlessly for the last three nights running, tracing the streets and attempting to come to terms with the silent, and yet terrible truth that Harry Outhwaite was on the take; he understood it, in a way. When he looked at it objectionably, all that Harry said made sense, and if they knew the drugs were clean, it was better than littering the streets with whatever dirt-ridden substitute for cocaine the foulest dealers could supply...

But it didn't make it right; drugs were drugs, and Harry was a copper – the two weren't made to sit alongside one another, however hard Harry might press that it was what they needed; informants were all well and good, people who heard things, picked things up but didn't act on them... But the scum themselves? The dealing, dirty scum that made up the scrotty underworld of Manchester? They should have been locked away.

With a sigh, he took off his helmet, dropping the latest cigarette butt to the ground and stamping it out with his boot, running a long fingered hand through his unkempt hair and sighing with annoyance.

He should turn him in; he'd known it since that first day, but something held him back, something about Harry made him stop and reconsider – people admired him, idolised him, thanked him and adored him unconditionally for his acts in the war, his dedication to the force, his job, his family... He had the support and trust of every constable, sergeant and detective in the division, and that, Gene realized, was what made turning him in so hard; he wouldn't just be turning in a copper – he'd be turning in a hero.

And if you wanted to get somewhere - if you wanted to make it, be liked, and still stop the scum from spilling over the edges of society with filth and crime - you didn't turn in heroes... at least not if you wanted to keep your bollucks intact, anyway, and-

The sound of crunching gravel down the alley to his left caught his attention, snapping him out of his reverie, and his head snapped up at the same moment that a familiarly skinny figure darted into the streetlight, ragged shirt torn at the elbow of his left arm, eyes wild and hair in disarray.

"George?" Gene asked, frowning as his brother's friend halted in his tracks, glancing at Gene with an air of mistrust, before scampering forward with hurry, swiftly invading Gene's personal space as he grabbed the lapels of his coat.

"Genie?" George laughed, his wild eyes crazed as he touched a hand disbelievingly to Gene's cheek. "Stuey's little Genie," he grinned, pawing almost affectionately at Gene's face before finding himself facing the opposite direction, arm twisted painfully behind his back as Gene grimaced, ignoring the drug induced laughter as he applied slightly more pressure on George's arm.

"Don't touch me," he growled softly, pushing the older man away and gritting his teeth as he turned instantly back and grabbed his jacket; as Gene went to speak again, feeling his anger burn at the back of his throat, pre-empting an as-yet unspoken snarl, he saw the sudden panic in George's eyes, noted the slight tremor of his lip as he shook his head, and he froze.

"Wasn't meant to happen," George whispered, voice sincere and cracking. "Wasn't meant to happen like it did..." He shook his head repeatedly, eyes wild, scared, terrified, and Gene could only frown as the other man rambled on. "Just normal; just normal – nothing funny, just the usual..."

"What are you-?"

"We were just takin' it like normal," George promised, swallowing hard and continuing to vigorously shake his head. "Just normal – normal stuff, normal bloke, normal way..." He was gasping for breath, shaking his head as he tugged Gene closer. "But it weren't normal!" He whispered, shaking his head again. "Weren't normal! Went wrong – so wrong! He was fine- he was funny... An' then he wasn't; an' he started fittin', an' I couldn't stop it, an' it kept 'appening', an' I went-!"

"George," Gene interrupted, feeling his heart rate treble as he grabbed the other man by the scruff and glowered at him. "Who?" There was a pause, a slight breath from the other man, and Gene felt himself combust with rage, shaking George viciously as he spat his next words in his face. "TELL ME WHO!" He demanded, rage causing him to tremble with impatience and fury.

George looked up at him, his eyes scared, confused, and tearful, before he spoke softly; "Stu..."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

For a moment – a single, horrible, chilling moment - Gene stood stock still, his countenance one of total disbelief, even as he looked into the terrified and yet sincere gaze of his brother's long-time friend...

"Where?" He asked eventually, feeling his hands fist tighter in George's torn shirt as his whisper cut through the air. George bit his lip, swallowing hard, his eyes shifting slightly from side to side, as though nervous, fearful, uncertain... Then he nodded back to the alley he had just left, his fearful gaze flickering to Gene's face for a moment, before he was sent sprawling to the ground, thrust away from Gene with a fierce shove, landing firmly on the gravel as Gene tore down the alleyway, his boots crunching the small pebbles beneath his feet as he disappeared into the darkness.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It was a long alley, but there was only one way to go; it stretched onwards like a chasm, and with every step that Gene took, he could feel his heart race quicken, lungs rasping and mouth going dry as he ran. He darted around bins, leapt over a discarded bicycle that blocked the way, and skidded on a puddle of water, all of the time his sights fixed upon the hunched, white-shirted figure at the end of the alley, sat at an awkward angle, silent, unmoving...

He was at Stuart's side a moment later, knelt in a puddle of blood that had pooled from a wound on his brothers scalp, one arm behind his neck as he lifted Stuart into his hold, his own eyes wide and fearful as he took in the unnatural whiteness of his skin, the vacant, glazed eyes, and the horrible, all too noticeable, rapidly cooling temperature of his flesh.

"Bastard!" He hissed, attempting to quell the sting in his eyes, the horrible twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach... "You stupid, useless, bastard!" His fingers searched vainly for a pulse at Stuart's wrist, swiftly moving to the neck when there was nothing, fighting the truth with every second that passed as tears slipped unwittingly down his cheeks, angering him further as he shook with a combination of rage, bitterness, and, beneath it all, grief.

"_He'll be back," he heard himself say; he saw his mother draw away, saw the fear in her eyes, the grief, the pain as she searched him for truth, for assurance..._

"_Of course he will," she whispered softly after a long while. "He always comes back..."_

He stiffened with rage, felt tears spill silently from his eyes as he trembled with self-loathing and regret, the memory of his mothers' false hope crashing down on him as he gripped his brothers cooling corpse against him, cradling his head against his own torso with his right hand, and resting the other against Stuart's unmoving chest, the unbeating heart...

"_Genie!" Stuart's face flashed up before him, eyes wild with hype and drugs as he stumbled through the living room door, arms outstretched as he laughed wildly, throwing his arms out in welcome as Gene's fingers dug angrily into his thighs, jaw clenched tightly as he gritted his teeth, watching in disgust as Stuart slumped next to the armchair, one arm slung across Gene's chest. "Little Genie," Stuart crooned softly, laughing to himself as he shook his head; were it not for the starkness of his veins, the slight scratch in the crook of his elbow, and the wildness of his eyes, Gene could have mistaken him for being drunk. "I'm happy, Genie," he yawned, patting Gene's shoulder repeatedly. "So happy... are you happy?"_

_A moment later, Gene had pushed him away, averting his eyes as he moved into the hallway; he ignored his mothers saddened face, didn't hear the words she addressed him with, and a moment later he was running down the street, the cold earth crunching under his boot... _

Gene stared down at Stuart's lifeless, pale face, noting the same jaw line and nose that stared back at him whenever he looked in the mirror, the same floppy hair that fell into Gene's own eyes, although Stuarts was slightly darker, browner... His eyes drifted down without thought, hand moving unconsciously to Stuart's left arm, and a moment later he had picked it up, straightened it out... and found himself staring at the familiarly unwelcome mark that the needle had left in his brothers skin...

"Gene?" Georges voice was dull, and weak, almost as if her were about to fall asleep where he stood. As Gene turned to look at him, George slumped against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut as he mumbled incoherently.

"Who gave it to you?" Gene asked softly, steel and venom edging into his voice as his fingers dug unconsciously into Stuart's limp arm.

He watched as George blinked, saw him frown stupidly as he shook his head, opening and closing his mouth dumbly, repeatedly... Gene gritted his teeth. "Who gave you the drugs?" He snapped again, still cradling Stuart as he knelt in the dirt.

When George didn't reply, Gene leapt up, leaving Stuart on the cold floor as he slammed the other man into the wall, grabbing him by the scruff and spitting his words out with anger and fury. "Tell me who!" He ordered again, gripping him viciously as he pushed his face close to his; when George remained silent even then, Gene fumbled in his pocket, drawing out his warrant card and forcing it into George's line of sight. "I'm not asking you as a friend," he growled. "Tell me which scrotty, scum of the earth _bastard,_ gave you the drugs!"

George sobbed slightly, eyes wide as they flickered from Gene's card to his face, before he nodded, biting his lip as stray tears slipped from his eyes. "It were Jonny," he murmured, sniffing slightly. "Jonny Saville..."

Gene stared for a few moments, his anger and disbelief rooting him to the spot, before suddenly he moved, dragging George to Stuart's side and forcing him to his knees, hissing in his ear with rage and venom so intense he could barely think straight. "You stay 'ere," he ordered, grabbing George by the neck and forcing him to stare into Stuart's vacant face. "You watch him, else I'll cut off your bollucks and feed 'em ter the birds fer breakfast; you got that? You don't move, you don't go fer a piss, and you don't speak; you just watch him, an' make sure nobody touches a hair on his head!" He grabbed George's hair, jerking his head backwards and hissing viciously. "You got that?" He repeated, hand tight on his scalp; George nodded fearfully, and a moment later Gene shoved his head forwards, heading down the alley at a sprint and taking an instant right, his feet carrying him knowingly through the streets.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Is 'e here?" Gene slammed his blood-smeared fist onto the bar, shouting above the old man ordering his drink as the familiar barmaid looked at him in disgust.

"Get your dirty mitts off that bar!" She ordered, pushing his hand from the surface and grabbing a cloth to wipe up the mess; a moment later Gene grabbed her, jerking her forward into the wooden surface of the bar with incandescent rage burning in his eyes, hands fisting in her high-necked blouse without reservation.

"Where's Jonny?" He growled, ignoring the look of surprise and fear in her eyes as she shook her head slightly; when she didn't answer, he felt himself snap, raising his voice to a yell. "Where is 'e?"

"I don't-!" Her voice was fearful, but a soft chuckle from the corner of the room caught Gene's attention, and a moment later he'd shoved her away, turning on his heel and searching the room for its source; Jonny was sat on his own, nursing a pint with a soft smile on his face.

"I'm right 'ere, Hunt... how about you grab a drink, apologise to the young lady an' come sit down, 'ey?"

Gene's face contorted with rage, and a few seconds later he'd crossed the room, grabbed the pint from Jonny's hands and thrown it over his face; before Jonny could react, Gene had tossed aside the glass, grabbed him by the scruff and slammed him face first into the wall, hearing a bone break with a satisfying crunch, before twisting him round and kneeing Jonny between the legs. He grabbed his head, jerked it back viciously, and glared down at him with hatred burning in the depths of his eyes.

"Remember yer latest sale, Jonny?" He growled, eyes glinting dangerously. "Georgey and Stu – remember them?"

"What are you-?"

Gene slammed his fist into the other mans stomach, watching as he crippled over before jerking him upright again. "Well you better remember 'em," he hissed, grabbing the other mans jaw and snapping it around so that their eyes met. "'cause when you're locked up in a dingy cell with a bender bastard's knob up your self-important arse, I want you to know why!"

"You're off your head, Hunt, I'm-!"

"He died!" Gene roared, his fist bashing into Jonny's jaw with a crunch before he slammed the other man's head back against the brick wall. "Stu died cold, an' alone, dosed up with a needle full of your _crap _shoved in his veins!" His knee connected with Jonny's stomach before he went on, hissing angrily. "You can sweet talk Harry all yer like," he growled, "but if you think I'm letting yer walk down that street un-cuffed you've got another thing coming!"

Jonny looked at him, half surprised, blood seeping from a wound above his eyebrow, but a moment later, he laughed, shaking his head and grasping Gene's shoulder tightly. "I saved your life," he growled, gritting his teeth. "So even if it was my stuff - an' you've got no proof it was - you're gunna let me walk!"

Gene chuckled dryly, and then shook his head, hand darting out to grab Jonny's neck as he spat the words from his mouth. "I'd rather choke on my own ball sack than let you bugger off," he growled, spit speckling Jonny's face.

"It's your funeral," Jonny managed, though his breath was short and ragged as he laughed softly.

Anger flared again, and Gene's knee crashed into Jonny's stomach before he slammed him into the wall, punching him repeatedly in the face until the other man slumped slightly, bleeding profusely and mumbling incoherently; Gene let him drop to the floor unceremoniously, his face grim as he answered.

"No," he growled softly, "it's his."

He aimed a final, vicious kick at the other mans stomach, then hauled him to his feet, dragging his hands behind his back and snapping the handcuffs around his wrist, before practically hauling him into the street, ignorant of the fearful looks that followed him on his way.

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**Gene's not having a very good week...**

**I hope this worked – tried to tie in Stu with Harry in a way that was tangible... so let me know what you thought! :-)**

**Mage of the Heart**


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